Sometimes the first step in caring for yourself is admitting you need care, and letting someone else provide it.

That has never come naturally to me. Caring for yourself sounds simple, but it is a discipline. It requires paying attention and making yourself a priority in ways that can feel uncomfortable, even indulgent.

For much of my life, I was practically deaf to my body.

In college, I was dehydrated most of the time and chronically sleep deprived. I treated both as if they were normal.

I thought it was being strong.

And why do I think I always have to be strong?

I did not understand how much it affected my ability to think clearly, to perform my best in school, or to show up well in my relationships.

I thought pushing through was the point.

It was only later, when I began caring for your dad and then for you and your brothers, that I started to understand what care really looks like. When someone you love is sick, you do not question whether they deserve rest.

You do not make them feel guilty for needing help.

You bring them what they need.

You sit with them.

You pay attention.

It made me realize how strange it was that I had never offered that same gentleness to myself. Why is it so easy to care for others, and so hard to extend that same care inward?

When we were sick as children, my mom was attentive in ways that made us feel safe and loved. She would heat Dr Pepper on the stove and bring it to us in a mug, steaming hot. She would stroke our hair and press her hand gently against our forehead.

She would kiss us there, too, lingering just long enough for us to feel it.

Those small acts told us we were cared for.

Years later, I made the hot Dr Pepper for one of your older brothers when he was sick, certain it would work the same magic.

He did not agree.

He thought it was terrible.

I still think it is wonderful. Not just for the taste, but for what it represents.

This week, as I lay there drinking the toddy your dad made for me, I was reminded again that caring for yourself begins with listening.

Listening when your body tells you to stop.

Listening when it tells you it needs something.

And allowing yourself to receive care without apology.

Your body carries you through your entire life.

It deserves your attention.

It deserves your kindness.

I hope you learn this sooner than I did. I hope you pay attention. I hope you never feel guilty for being kind to yourself, for giving yourself the same care you would give so freely to a friend.

I want you to be loved deeply by others, of course. But most importantly, I want you to love yourself.

To listen to yourself.

To care for yourself.

Because you deserve that love, too.

Love,
Mom